Crumpled. Their young bodies
so taken by force.
Damp like at birth.
Soft flesh gleams from womb water then,
from melted metal now where
here they lie in a field of grass
on the backs of wild celery.
Here no questions.
But say it, they were murdered
though we who murder them call it other things.
We call it "fallen".
No matter, they are our very own fallen dead
and we who sent them to Iraq want them back.
We want them back and in the center
of each caved chest we place a rose,
one stem in each
of our fallen boys and girls.
And then look. The whole field glows
a pious red.
As if there were only one rose,
only one dead.
Only one dead.